Subtle Othering

I didn’t have a lot of financial security in college. I worked full time and was taking 18 units a semester to graduate early. I really don’t remember the first year and a half of my college experience, the days ebbed and flowed in a blur.

I worked at Cricket’s Drafthouse running the pool floor. The 4pm to 4am shift. I often had 9am classes and would fly from the bunk bed in the door room, disheveled and almost always, missing a pencil.

There was one part of working at Cricket’s that will always stay with me and that part was named Tyler. Tyler had long blonde hair on one side of his face, shaved on the other. He painted his nails, almost always black or dark blue. He was kind, fiery, and the kind of funny that had you snort whatever you were just drinking out your nose. He quickly became the best part of work.

We used to play this game where we would try to grab each other’s butts at the most inopportune time and if the other one flinched, we lost a point. Imagine me with a tray of ten waters at a table when Tyler walks by cheerfully smacking my ass with a credit card book. To this day, the no butt-touching policy still stands at Cricket’s. Our legacy.

I had never had a friend so vehemently argue with others on my behalf. I bought a $50 bike that I would ride to work through sketchy parts of town. By the time I got off, it was dark and I felt less than safe. People would often shout out half drunken pick up lines and doped up slurs at me as I rode by. When people realized I was riding my bike home at night, I had some offers to give me a ride. Very commonly, it was from a bartender or bouncer who had less than honest intentions. Tyler read my discomfort instantly and would argue with whoever was adamantly insisting they were driving me home until they would give up in a huff. I remember one time he chucked his keys at me across the bar and yelled, “run” as I laughed and sprinted into the pouring rain and his beat up truck. If I was off before him, I would often wait for his call and then come rambling up to drive us back to my dorm room where we would sit on the floor and talk about our dreams.

Tyler loved nature and his boyfriend and the color green. His dream was to one day open a drag queen animal shelter, where people would perform with the animals who were up for adoption. He was from Bastrop, TX, a small conservative town outside of Austin.

I remember when he told me he was moving home. This was the first time I had seen him defeated, even with the constant comments on his long hair and painted nails and manneurisms. From what I remember, he wanted to go to college but had run out of money. He said he would call me.

We kept in touch but I was swept up in a heavy season of life. Between work and school and unhealthy coping mechanisms, I wasn’t the best at keeping up communication. I received a message from Tyler asking how I was doing. I never responded.

About a week or two later, I received an invite on Facebook from him. His birthday was coming up and I assumed the invitation was to his birthday party. I was wrong. His funeral was being held May 21st.

When someone decides to take their own life, there is an inevitable cycle of guilt and shame for those who love them. The questions seem never-ending. As we released balloons to the sky and I heard stories from his family and childhood friends, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if I had replied?

I have since released the guilt and shame. In all honesty, it’s selfish. It puts me at the center of Tyler’s pain and he had an entire internal world I knew nothing about. I am not at the center of Tyler’s decision nor his lived experience.

As Christians, we tend to debate sexuality in these removed and principled ways. Is it a sin? Is it not a sin? Are we welcoming? Welcoming and affirming? How far is too far? Fear thy slippery slope yada yada.

To us, what is a moral debate translates to someone else’s whole life. The very center of how they move through this world. The way they love.

And to that point, I don’t think hate is what killed Tyler.

Hate gives you something to rally against, something to stand up to. It polarizes people, puts people firmly on your side, in your corner. From the time I spent with him and the little world we navigated together, it wasn’t the hate that got to him. It was the subtle othering.

The subtle and intrusive ways people made Tyler “the other.” The subtle comments on his “interesting hairstyle.” The questions on whether his painted nails were “really necessary.” It was the side eyes and uncomfortable silences and the polite loathing people gave to him all wrapped up with a bow on top. There was nothing to do but accept the package with a tight smile and held breath.

I watched it over and over again. You blow it off, minimize it. At least I did, with an eye roll and a nudge. But maybe what Tyler needed was something he couldn’t do himself lest they label him further an outcast. Maybe what he needed was for me to cause a scene. To call out the passive aggressive bullshit. To polarize myself, even for a moment, the way these people were polarizing him. Maybe I needed to act in direct opposition to the way that he had to tread lightly.

I think of him back in Bastrop. I imagine the neighbors gossiping quietly with one another, pitying his parents cause he’s their son. I imagine what that’s like. I imagine even the people who love him making subtle comments and offhanded assertations without a thought. I think of the times that I do that. The times I subtly other the people I love.

Tyler was different. He was someone who couldn’t be anyone other than himself. From what I saw at the funeral, he was loved. By many people. But growing up gay in a small town in Texas is a rebellion in and of itself. It’s difficult. And you are firmly in the minority.

I wrote a song about him. It’s beautiful and haunting and maybe one day I’ll have the guts to share it in his honor. Until then, I’ll honor him by letting the people around me be exactly who they are.